Dragon Flight
by Magna Dea
Summary: When Mycroft Holmes forces his brother into buying a companion dragon to keep him out of trouble (and away from drugs), Sherlock picks the least boring drac possible. After the kitchen at 221B goes up in flames, Sherlock begins to uncover the history behind his savage, unpredictable flatmate and the secrets he's been hiding for years...
1. Ignis

**iςηis **[fire]

In a crowded market, on the outskirts of London, lay a large, worn-looking dragon. Of course it was no surprise to even the most moronic human being to see such a beast at_ Seb's Emporium of Pre-Owned Dragons_.

The rusted sign nailed to one of the iron-barred cages proclaimed the stall as a _fully _licensed dealer (and_ retrainer_) of secondhand scalies. _Seb's Emporium, a drac for every deed _read the slogan.

Owen (the salesman with no surname he cared to divulge) sat at the rickety shopfront table, gnawing habitually on a pen while he considered the morning paper's crossword. He'd just conceded defeat to _22 down _and was about to give up completely when a commotion broke out next door.

"-_what _are you attempting to achieve? Was sending three nurses into witness protection and burning down the psychiatric wing at Redcliffe not enough incentive for you to leave me be? Do you really think this is going to-"

"Really, Sherlock," a surprisingly calm voice interrupted. "Must we go through this ritual _every _time? You have rarely met them in the past, these histrionics you are in over owning one are-"

"I do not need to _own_ one to know what they are," hissed the man named Sherlock. "They are merely dumb beasts of burden. Dull. _Boring_."

Catching onto the thread of conversation, Owen decided it was high time he cut in. He smoothed down his balding hair, shrugged into his soot-stained leather jacket and stepped right into the fray.

"Good evening, sirs," he intoned in a way he thought most affable. "I could not help but overhear you are looking to procure a _drac_. We have some fine specimens available today for purchase or hire-"

The man called Sherlock - a tall fellow wearing a suit that would be smart if not for the appearance of having being slept in (and washed in mud instead of soap) - gave him a quick, appraising glance.

"You had sex with a man last night...and his wife as well if I'm not mistaken," pronounced the young man.

Owen turned plum-coloured, his mouth gaping open and shut like a particularly disgruntled trout.

"Obviously, I am very much correct," said Sherlock smugly before turning away. "May we leave now, Mycroft?"

The man in question brandished his umbrella at his brother. "No. We certainly may _not_," he growled before offering an apology to the shopkeeper. "If it is not too much to ask, may we take a tour of your available dragons? Price is _not_ an issue..."

Owen perked up significantly at the mention of a customer with deep pockets. He sent Sherlock a downright hostile sneer before gesturing the older Holmes forwards. "Well in that case, we have several specimens that may be of interest to you. Do you have any preferences? Small or large? Male or female? Colouring and the like?"

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in his brother's direction, "Sherlock?"

"No," he replied as both an answer to Owen's questions and another blatant refusal of his brother's idiotic plan.

"Well then," Mycroft continued as if Sherlock where as mute as a drac, "I believe we will know the beast when we see it."

Owen stepped up to a nearby cage, thumbing the plastic light-switch to illuminate its contents. A medium-sized dragon with pearlescent scales the size of tablespoons, luminous pink-tinted eyes and small, thin-looking claws stirred lazily against the concrete floor of its cell.

"This is one of our female dracs, she's obedient and as well mannered a beast as can be found-"

Sherlock stepped up to the bars, ignoring Owen's tenseness as he purposely forayed into the other man's personal space. "She's almost completely blind; likely the result of her being bred and raised in captivity by morons - next."

"How could you possibly accuse me of trying to sell you a second-rate _scaley_?" Owen spat, rounding on Sherlock. "She was wild! Caught in Norway and highly prized for her-"

"Rare genetic disease? Really, how on earth would a dragon from the wilds of Norway fall victim to an illness exclusively found in captive bred dracs? I doubt your employers would appreciate a hefty fine for their involvement in illegal activities, shall we move on?"

Owen spluttered while Mycroft breathed a long-suffering sigh. The dragon uncoiled her slender body a little more, her wings trapped against her rib cage by a thick leather (magically reinforced) band. Sherlock turned away in favour of observing the next drac. This one was smaller, green in colour and male; _a perfectly normal dragon_, Owen assured them.

"He killed both of his previous owners - ate them in their sleep. Next, shall we?"

The proceeding three dragons went much the same way as the others (Large, black, male - elderly and arthritic. Small, silver, female - pregnant. Large, brown, male - _dull_!) Owen had long since lost his patience and Mycroft was beginning to lose all hope of finding a suitable drac when Sherlock paused in the middle of a particularly crude deduction about Owen's mother.

"Why is that cage kept separate?" he inquired, already striding purposefully towards a darkened corner in the rear of the shop.

"Quarantine," replied Owen in a rather hasty manner. "Wild scaliestend to carry many nasty infectious diseases."

Sherlock paused barely a foot from the cage's rusted iron bars. "That statement would be true if this dragon had not been vaccinated within the past three years-"

"Really, Sherlock?" Mycroft scoffed. "How could you _possibly _know that?"

"You said it would '_do me well'_ to research the care and control of modern household dracs. The lack of sulphourous build up on these cage bars means that this dragon either cannot breath fire or has recently had the vaccination for _draconis pyroacari_, otherwise known as the Common Fire Mite. Only well-to-do owners vaccinate for those as each dose only lasts a maximum of three years. As there is a very slight build up of sulphur beginning to form, this dragon was vaccinated mid-March of the year 2009. Obviously he has not been wild in at least three years. Mister Owen is therefore lying, again." Sherlock paused to let his tirade sink in, wisely using the time Owen spent in stunned silence to grab the cage keys from his belt.

"Let's take a look then, shall we?" exclaimed Sherlock, popping the lock before either his brother or the shopkeeper could react.

The sudden entrance provoked an ominous growling from the cage's surprisingly large occupant. Sherlock caught a glance of luminous golden wings unfurling before a flash of electric blue light zapped along the cage bars, effectively blinding him.

"I was going to warn you," Owen grumbled, a hand at Sherlock's elbow pulling him back. "Highly dangerous that one; he's been deemed untrainable and a threat to public safety by the MET's Dragon Training and Safety Division. Been on the list for execution for a whole bloody month. Right drain on our profits to have to keep him here indefinitely!"

Sherlock, his sight now restored, turned back to examine the runes and magical wards engraved into the cage bars that still glowed faintly against the rust. Behind the bars the creature had slumped to the floor with the massive jolt of magical energy, its molten chestnut coloured eyes closed to bare slivers. Well, if Mycroft did insist Sherlock purchase a companion drac...he could really find no better a companion than this savage and broken creature.

"This one," Sherlock declared in a whirl of coat tails, turning his back on the stunned silence. "He is mine."

* * *

**End Note: **This is to be a multi-chaptered work with eventual sexing so just be aware later chapters will be mature. Hopefully I will be able to update about once a fortnight but I've had writers block for about a year and 0 motivation. Feel free to comment about anything, this is unbeta'd so there's likely to be a few mistakes :) Cross posted at the AO3


	2. Feritas

ƒεriŧαs

[wildness]

After Sherlock's impertinent announcement and subsequent departure from Seb's Emporium, Mycroft efficiently took care of the drac's nominal purchase fee and the ownership papers were transferred into his name. Owen was uncharacteristically helpful with the organisation of transport, providing Mycroft with the business card of a reputable wildlife freight service run by a doctor of veterinary medicine, Mike Stamford.

"Doc Stamford'll give him the good drugs," Owen assured the elder Holmes brother once the date and time for delivery were settled. "That mean old beast wont know what's hit him!"

Mycroft's reply had been a small twist of lip that was falsely interpreted as a smile.

* * *

Much to Sherlock's infinite annoyance, Dr. Stamford and his crew proved to be just as efficient and reliable as Owen had claimed them to be. Within fifteen minutes of their arrival at 221 Baker Street the dragon was upstairs and settled on the living room floor. He would just have to formulate a plan to lose Mycroft's dumb beast later.

On his way out, Stamford took it upon himself to leave Sherlock with a few parting pearls of wisdom. "He should be out for the rest of the day. We had to give him three times the usual weight to sedation ratio for a dragon of his size. You'd best stoke up that fireplace before his core temperature drops too far; a big drop in body heat can-"

"Severely diminish a drac's ability to expel flame," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. " I am very familiar with the latest research projects and scientific publications, Doctor Stamford. You have performed your job satisfactorily and I believe my brother has arranged payment with your company so I shall take my leave. Good day."

Stamford's docile expression slipped at Sherlock's 'satisfactory' rating of his performance, though he fortunately made no further attempt to reengage in conversation and left rather promptly - exactly the result Sherlock had aimed to provoke. Why waste time pleasing someone so dull when there was something interesting and potentially challenging unconscious in his flat?

An indecent little smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he took the stairs three at a time and strode none-too-quietly towards his unfortunate prey, unearthing a torch (police issue, pilfered from Lestrade just a week ago) from the cluttered dining room table on the way.

The horse-sized dragon lay sprawled on its side, the gold-hued scales of its hide darkened to shades of brown by caked on grime and the creature's general ill health. Kneeling beside the drac's head, Sherlock used his right hand to deftly pry open a heavy, scaled eyelid, hefting the torch in the opposite hand. Neither the split pupiled eyes nor the lack of pupillary response surprised Sherlock - obviously Stamford had not exaggerated the excessive amount of sedative used to fell the beast. Sherlock promptly dropped the stolen torch in favour of further exploration.

The thick skin of the dragon's cheeks proved reasonably hot to touch, a sign that the drugs were yet to have an adverse affect on the dragon's homeostatic processes.

'How fortunate,' Sherlock thought, 'though if the drac were to die of an overdose it would save the effort involved in losing it later.'

Sherlock carefully palpated along the raised, knobbly brow ridges to the fleshy masseter and temporal muscles along the sides of the wide skull. Many scientific research papers likened a dragon's cranial structure to their closest living relatives - crocodiles - however in Sherlock's opinion, the similarities were rather superficial. On average the brain cavity of a common drac was at least three times that of a crocodile and the facial profile (having not evolved for an underwater habitat) much less flat.

Continuing his explorations, Sherlock felt further along until he reached a curious frill of leathery skin on either side of the creature's head. Most dragons - especially the smaller dog and cow sized breeds - lacked an external ear aperture. This dragon it seemed was a specimen of a handful of larger drac breeds with flexible flaps of skin used to protect the delicate structures of the inner ear during flight.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured in a distracted voice before moving his inspection along the beast's spiked neck to its limp wings.

The wings were even dirtier than the dragon's body having been strapped down tight until Sherlock had cut through the leather binding just after Stamford released his levitation spell not an hour ago. Sherlock had not felt a sudden uncharacteristic sense of kindness towards the creature, he had merely sought to alleviate his raging curiosity towards the enigmatic limbs.

Now he was able to closely observe them, he estimated their length to be a fully flight-capable ten metres. Other than the obvious dog-eared state of the appendages they appeared to be in full working order apart from a large, pockmarked on the left wing joint. Perhaps this drac was earthbound after all. How dull.

After that discovery Sherlock made a perfunctory study of the creature's tail (four metres long, spiked along the top edge, ending in four crimson coloured rudder fins), claws (long, curved and serrated on the inside edge - obviously this dragon had recently been in a high-adrenaline environment for-battle ready claws such as these to grow in) and teeth (twenty-eight thick, curved fangs) but his interest was beginning to wane. He would not have settled for this drac if he had known it was grounded.

Sudden bounding footsteps on the staircase caused a slight smile to spread across Sherlock's face as he straightened up from the floor. Finally Lestrade had realised his team were out of their depth with this serial 'suicide' business. It had only taken three - no, four deaths.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded before Lestrade had even reached the landing.

The other man finished his climb before answering, "Brixton. Lauriston Gardens."

"Something has changed," Sherlock stated, reading the detective inspector's impatience in his balled fists and bedraggled appearance.

"A note. This one left a note," replied Lestrade as he spared a quick glance around the cluttered apartment. "Will you-" he began to ask before breaking off abruptly to stare at the reptilian mound behind Sherlock. "Is that a bloody drac?"

"Your deductive reasoning skills continue to astound me, Inspector," the man in question snarked, unwilling to be distracted from the case at hand. "Who is on forensics?"

Lestrade stood in stunned silence for a moment longer before heaving an exasperated sigh. It wasn't worth the pain to wrestle the dragon's backstory out of Sherlock. He would more than likely find out about it later anyway, whether he wanted to or not. Instead he simply replied, "Sergeant Donovan and Anderson of course."

"Of course!" Sherlock snapped angrily because, as if merely speaking their names summoned them, the two police officers had appeared on the staircase behind their superior. "Anderson wont work with me. You know that Lestrade."

"Who can blame him?" Sally interjected. "Not after you almost burned off his wings on that drac smuggling case!"

Anderson flared out said wings in a show of animosity towards his tormenter, an act which would have been much more impressive if not for the fact he was the size of an average beagle with wings to match.

Sherlock scoffed haughtily. "You speak as if that would be a dramatic loss, Sally. May I remind you the fool can't even use them properly."

Just as Lestrade was about to step in and cool the situation down, Anderson let out an almighty screech and launched himself at Sherlock's knees, his razor sharp teeth snapping at fabric and flesh. In the following melee Anderson managed to utterly destroy Sherlock's tailored trousers, gouging deep cuts into his calves and thighs with knife-like talons as he climbed higher. Lestrade made a grab for the enraged creature only to be rewarded with a nasty bite on his palm while Sally watched with equal parts mirth and worry.

Anderson was just starting to rip into Sherlock's white dress shirt and black suit jacket when a sudden rumbling noise like a distant thunderclap froze all movement in the room. That is until a large, gold scaled head appeared at Sherlock's shoulder, drug-addled hazel eyes fixed intently on the little white dragon with blood stained claws. A cloud of thick black smoke began to gather around the larger drac's nostrils, the air in the room growing heavy with the scent of gunpowder.

Sally swallowed convulsively as the gold dragon's maw opened wide to show a violent red glow gathering in the back of the creature's throat that was steadily turning orange then yellow and finally a deep electric blue.

"Shit," Lestrade swore, his hands in the air in defensive surrender. "It's a war dragon!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Hopefully there aren't too many mistakes in that, I wrote 3/4 of it today and thought I've left you guys hanging long enough - damn writer's block! - so I've put it up as is :) The first bit was very hard to get the tenses right in and just did not want to be written (so I got the notepaper and pen out and did it the hard way!)

Thank you so much to everyone that's commented/faved/subscribed, it does really mean a lot to me.

Sorry for all the worldbuilding in this chapter but it will be important later on ;)


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